Only One Word For Snow
by Kusanagi no Tsurugi
Summary: Toki Wartooth hates the snow...


**Only One Word For Snow**

(A/N Hello all! This is a fic my friend wrote. She did not want to post it here, so I agreed to post for her. I will periodically post her works on this site, so be aware. She can be found at Livejournal community: capslokdethklok Under the guise of Feraltoki.)

(Original A/N: Extra-special thanks to lessxthanxthree, who finally gave me the boot in the ass I needed to finish this. (as well as more than a couple of lines.)!

Writers' debut, please rape gently.

Toki Wartooth hated the snow.

He hated the snow, he hated the cold, he hated the wind-driven sleet and freezing rain. All of it. It reminded him far too much of his home, of his childhood (or the pathetic mess of pain and abuse that had laughably passed for one). The only thing more bleak and desolate than the frozen landscape without was the bleakness and desolation of the withered soul within.

He watched the flakes lazily float and swirl about, blown this way and that in the chill wind. The cold only brought pain, stinging and needling and numbing. That piled upon whatever punishment his parents had heaped upon him at that time for whatever reason. Or for no reason whatsoever.

His mind wandered, mesmerized by the movement and glitter of the tiny crystals, and settled into a familiar place of regret, of self-pity and self-loathing, of loneliness and depression. His eyes turned down, his face covered by the chestnut curtain of his hair, head resting on his arms as he lolled across the back of the couch in front of the common room's floor-to-ceiling windows.

The wind outside howled, the blood inside roared, and Toki, immersed in his pit of misery, became oblivious to all else, both within and without.

So absorbed was he in his reflecting, wallowing and watching of the snow that he never heard sneakered feet creeping up behind him, or saw a pair of emerald green eyes sparkling with deviousness, an arm laden with powdery white.

He caught a whiff of Pickles' trademarked alcohol-laden breath a split second before he heard his Wisconsin twang ring out, felt himself being flung off-balance, yanked backwards by his shirt.

"SURPRISE, COCKFAG!" The dred-headed drummer unloaded his heaping armful of snow down the back of Toki's T-shirt, cascading the whitewash down into the back of his pants as well.

Toki immediately shot off of the couch with a squawk of mingled surprise, outrage and discomfort, infuriated at the sudden wet and chill set upon him, flailing, trying to get at the rapidly melting mess. Pickles had stepped a good distance back, and was watching Toki's reaction with amusement.

Toki hopped up and down on one leg, cursing and kicking and flailing the other one wildly, trying to rid himself of this cold, wet annoyance. Pickles chuckled. At least the kid hadn't charged him yet, he thought to himself. He remained prepared for fight or flight, however. Just in case. Toki could be completely unpredictable at times, and Pickles certainly didn't want to be caught with his pants down, either figuratively or literally.

Failing to dislodge the source of the frost that encroached upon the very core of his being, he tore off his boots, hurling them with a snarl in the drummer's general direction, then whipped his shirt off over his head and threw it to the floor with a growl (Pickles winced inwardly as his scarred back came into view- the sheer brutality that must have been his existence prior to Dethklok was something that the drummer didn't really want to consider). This was quickly followed by his pants (Pickles noticing, with his usual amount of (dis)interest that the kid was freeballing, as per the usual).

Stalking over to the hot tub with another snarl, and a glare over his shoulder at the drummer, he submerged himself completely beneath the water, save for his eyes and nose, letting the heat chase the chill from his bones. He closed his eyes, and exhaled through his mouth, letting a sigh bubble to the surface as he relaxed.

Pickles' gaze followed Toki to the hot tub, amusement tugging his lips into a lopsided grin. The kid really could throw a tantrum with flair. Toki reminded the older man a little bit of himself when he had been younger, and on the receiving end of similar treatment from his older brother Seth. A small pang of guilt reared its head then, and began to gnaw at the redhead's conscience with sharp little needle teeth.

Shaking his head and deciding he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this, he sauntered to the kitchen to fix himself a drink.

After mixing his fruity foo-foo du jour, complete with miniature umbrella, he decided to return to the common room to see if Toki was still there fuming. Upon arrival, he saw that yes, the Norwegian was still in the tub, and yes, he was decidedly still peeved. Snorting, he walked over to the hot tub, stripped, and stepped into it, hissing at the near-scalding water as he settled himself, paying no mind to the obvious risk to his life and limb. He was fairly certain that Toki didn't want him to be there, but what the hell, he was bored; at least he would get some sort of twisted amusement out of Toki beating his ass, if, indeed, that's what he decided to do.

When he was certain that he wouldn't suddenly end up smeared across the stone walls of the 'haus, Pickles cleared his throat, drawing Toki's gaze and attention.

Toki pulled himself up into a better sitting position and gave Pickles a withering glare that could have shattered a diamond with its intensity; the drummer knew from experience that it would certainly have been in his best interest to heed the unspoken warning and STAY THE FUCK AWAY.

But Pickles, ever on an endless bender, rarely listened to the voice of reason (and sometimes even that of common sense).

Pickles scooted a little closer to Toki, drink in hand. "So, ahh, ya don't like snow, huh?"

Fixing Pickles with the same inscrutable gaze, he bristled and sneered, showing his teeth, hissing his disdain. "I hates it."

Pickles' expression turned to one of mock shock, eyes widening. "You hate it? All of it? Snowball fights? Snow forts? Snow angels? Sledding?"

Toki huffed and crossed his arms. "Whats are you be talkings about?"

Pickles snickered, setting his glass down on the edge of the hot tub. "Don't you guys have, like, a hundred and ten words for snow or something?"

Toki rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, snapping irritatedly at the perpetually pickled percussionist. "I's Norwegian, nots Eskimoos, dipshits. We's only has de one word for snow."

Pickles was intrigued. He'd never have admitted it to any of the others, but he loved to listen to Toki and Skwisgaar prattle on in their native tongues, and eavesdropped on them any and every chance he could get. He found it almost irresistibly exotic (not to mention more than a tad erotic, as well, another thing that he'd never openly admit to). He leaned in closer, listening in anticipation. "So... what is it?"

The ghost of a smile played at the corner of the rhythm guitarist's mouth as he turned to face Pickles, fixing him dead-on with eyes of ice-blue silver that now twinkled with a hint of mischief, his tone even, his reply deadpan. "Shit."

Pickles groaned, shaking his head slowly, facepalming, and muttering beneath his breath, trying not to burst into laughter. "Ahhh, motherdouchebag..." He didn't expect such an answer from Toki, but, somehow, he knew he should have. He turned to reach over for his hurricane glass of fruity foo-foo girliness and doom, only to find that it wasn't there.

While Pickles had been distracted by Toki, the guitarist had snaked his arm, unhurriedly and unnoticed, around the drummer's back and stolen his drink, which he was sipping on contentedly, a smirk gracing his face.

Pickles clenched a fist beneath the surface of the water, then thought better of it, and released it with a quiet chuckle. "Guess I deserved that one, huh?"

Toki didn't reply, but continued his unhurried sipping. Pickles sighed, and smiled slightly. I whitewash the kid, he steals my drink, I didn't get the shit beat out of me, I'm still drunk, and doodily-doo-dammit, all's right with the world, he thought to himself as he leaned back, eyes sliding closed.

All's right with the world... or, at least, with Dethklok...

For the moment, at least.


End file.
